


One Long Last Call

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Episode: s05e17 99 Problems, Ghost Sex, M/M, Season/Series 15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-22 15:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22151500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: A second and last one-night stand.
Relationships: Paul (Supernatural: 99 Problems)/Sam Winchester
Comments: 20
Kudos: 38





	One Long Last Call

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for salt_burn_porn months ago and only just got round to a few revisions to make it postable here. It was written before s15 began airing, so it's not quite canon-compliant.
> 
> I've wanted to write Sam/Paul the Barkeep for years. Rewatching 99 Problems reminded me what a great one-off character Paul was. I am saddened to find that as far as the wiki knows he has no last name.

It’s weird to be back. 

That’s a thought Sam’s had at least a hundred times so far in Chuck’s nostalgia tour, but it’s particularly apropos in Brewer. _God doesn’t give a fuck_ should be on one of those painted Welcome signs at the town line. It fits, that they’ve circled back round to here.

At least Dean’s not running off to say Yes to Michael, again or for the first time. He’s just taken the car out to that wreck of a house to see if Dylan’s ghost is going to show. The car should draw him if he’s there. 

Sam had taken the boarded-up bar.

It’s empty of customers, like last time he was in here. He hadn’t been there when Paul was shot. He can see the body, though, slumped against the bar. Then it flickers and Paul’s back where he belongs, towel over his shoulder, reaching for the bottles behind the bar.

“Want to help me kill some inventory?” he says. Like the last time Sam was here.

Sam should do what he’s come to do and head out. He sits down at the bar. 

“Sure,” he says.

Paul’s hand goes right through the dusty bottles, but the shot glass appears in front of Sam anyway, full. Neat trick. Sam drinks it. He hasn’t gotten drunk in a really long time. He’s not sure where that road leads now. The glass fills up again and he drains it again.

“You can stop looking at me like that,” says Paul. “Just man up and spit it out. _Yer a ghost, Paul._ You’re almost big and shaggy enough for Hagrid. Though I guess I’d better watch it with Harry Potter. Full of black magic and ungodliness.”

“You, uh, know you’re dead.”

“I have a good memory. My best friend’s wife killing me made an impression. Tell me, you always show up with a wounded shoulder, or is this some timeloop thing because I’m dead?”

Sam touches his shoulder. It’s not infected, it’s not getting worse, it doesn’t hurt, but it bleeds persistently, through bandages, shirts, and jackets. He tells Dean he feels fine, and he does. Just a little woozy and unreal, sometimes. Especially when he’s been doing shots with a ghost. The whole bar is wavering. 

“There’s a God and I shot him,” he says, because Paul will appreciate this, and someone should. “Turns out the gun kicked like a mule.”

Paul throws back his head and laughs. It makes him look alive again.

“Not your best plan, I’m guessing,” he says.

“Wasn’t even a plan,” says Sam.

“I had plans. Sucking your dick again, for starters. But here we are. Life is a cockblock and then you die. You here to bust my ghost, or just to reminisce?”

Like he doesn’t know.

“We, uh. I can help you move on,” says Sam. Sometimes being a hunter feels like he’s a fucking undertaker, a walking thesaurus of euphemisms.

Paul echoes the thought.

“ _Moving on_ is one of those phrases that come on cards with a rainbow. Maybe not a rainbow. Something a bit straighter. Ending is more my style. Ending with style. Wish I could have a last drink and a last fuck, but you can’t always die as you’ve lived.”

Sam swallows.

“We could try,” he says. He remembers that night. It was the last time he’d had sex before the Cage. The last time the person he’d been had had sex. And it must be that for Paul, too. The last time for the person he’d been.

Paul cocks an eyebrow at him. 

“It’s a nice idea, but I’d go right through you. Not satisfying. Though …” 

“Though?” says Sam. 

“One man’s problem is another man’s improv,” says Paul. He looks daredevil, speculative, lively. Handsome. He reaches out towards Sam, reaches in. Sam tenses and then — why not? dark bar, hot dead guy, waver of alcohol, unreal return — relaxes.

“How does that feel?” says Paul, as much like he’s curious as like he’s checking in. 

Sam’s been fucked, he’s been fisted, he’s had angels in him, demons, he’s had hands reaching in to grope for his soul. 

“Different,” he says, and it’s true. It’s not like any of those things. It’s an intimate, shivery feeling. He’s sweating in tiny pinpricks. It’s like he can feel each molecule evaporate. His breath has gone shallow and feathery. “Intense,” he adds. “Good.” Though he’s not quite sure it is. He’s sure he wants more of it, but there is no more. No, that’s wrong, there’s _only_ more, building and building.

Paul comes closer. There’s no body warmth, body smell, none of the press of weight that goes with sex, but Paul takes one more step and he’s in Sam. Or, or, vice versa. Both of them vibrating around their empty spaces. It’s like the anticipation and orgasm are happening at the same time. For a moment it’s hard to separate the panic from the sex.

“Wait,” says Sam, “stop.”

Paul backs out immediately. He looks wispy, almost gone, like that was too much for him, too.

“Sorry,” he says. A human voice would be rough; his is thin and dry. 

“I have another idea,” says Sam. He says it quickly, because he’s not saying no, he doesn’t want to say no. “In the _Odyssey_ , you know, Homer, the ghosts, when they want to speak to the ghosts, they give them blood. To make them solid.” 

He touches his shoulder again. His fingers come away bloody, like always. He holds them out. 

This time he can see Paul thinking _Why not?_

“New kinks beyond the grave,” he says, and bends towards Sam’s fingers.

At first his mouth is a faint tickle, moth-wings, but then it gets solid, warm and wet. There’s a tug of suction. It’s like Sam’s feeling his own body come back. He pulls Paul’s head down to his shoulder, to the wound. Sam’s never been on the receiving end of this, with blood going out of him. Paul bites and the wound finally, finally hurts. Sam reaches out and feels rough cloth, works his hand in and finds warm flesh. He could grab Paul’s dick, but he doesn’t want that. He wants _in_ , in a solid body. He traces his fingers down. 

There’s no time for finesse. Who knows how long the hit of blood will last. He finds Paul’s hole and shoves his sucked fingers in, drags them out, digs in his shoulder again and shoves past Pauls’ waistband to stick them back into Paul’s body while they’re still slicked with blood. Paul’s ass clenches hot and hard while Sam moves his fingers. For one moment they’ll give each other something real, friction. There’s no time to fuck, but there’s friction. Something grates in Sam’s shoulder as Paul grinds against him and Sam comes on the burst of pain. He leans against Paul’s shoulder, panting, feeling it fade from solid bone to spirit and cloud.

“You could, you know, we could probably keep you going that way. With blood. For a while.” That’s something they’ve never tried, but it seems like it might work.

But Paul shakes his head.

“You don’t want that, I don’t want that. Let’s not go there. This is my town, Sam. I grew up here, I died here, here’s where you can do whatever you do to my ghost.”

“You don’t want to go steady?” Figures, not even a ghost wants to take Sam’s number.

“Sorry, Sam. I don’t believe in love at first bite. A few one-night-stands was what we were going to be, anyway. Good send-off, though. Nothingness goes down better chasing a shot of something.”

Sam’s not sure that’s a thing he knows. It sounds enviable. He hopes whatever hovering Reaper just got an eyeful can give Paul that choice, an end.

“I’ll probably have to burn down the bar.”

“Be my guest. I’m dead, Sam. Makes it hard to be scared of death. I’ll go down with my ship.”

“It’s a bar.”

“I’ll go down with my den of iniquity, then.”

Sam feels like he should say something, _sorry, goodbye_ , but Paul’s not a speeches guy.

“I’ll get the kerosene,” he says instead.

“Fuck that,” says Paul. “Die as you’ve lived.”

He grabs the vodka from the shelf. Sam can see the bottle through his hand, the blood is fading, but he’s still solid enough to lift it, spilling and splashing across the bar. 

“Lend us a hand, here,” he says, and Sam does. It’s another kind of relief, smashing bottles, soaking in fumes, getting ready to send one more bit of the past up in flames.

There’s no last kiss. Paul gives him a quick, almost jaunty wave, thanks and regret and _what does it matter_.

Sam walks out into the night and throws a lit match through the window. The last of the glass blows out in a whoosh of flame.


End file.
